What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. “You doubted me?” She joked. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too. He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. He frowned.
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